Handle With Care
by Sebby-Nyan
Summary: The story of a boy who wrote with his left hand... And therefore grew up with dreams of destroying the world. WARNING: questionable memory access and overuse of the word "unfathomable". Written for AnnaRavenHeart's name challenge! (Scevola)


**Disclaimer: I do not own this story. I do not own JK Rowling. I do not own a left hand. I do not like green eggs and ham. One of the first 4 statements is false. One of the first 4 statements is true. One of the first 4 statements is true unless you are as delusional as me and the last of the 4 statements is untested. If 3 ducks ate a blanket- Why is a raven like a writing desk?**

**Written for AnnaRavenHeart's name challenge: Catagory-Italian (100) - Scevola**

* * *

In the esteemed opinion of Mrs A. Cole, matron of Wool's orphanage, Tom Marvolo Riddle was always a lovely, _lovely_ boy. What's that - A psychopathic snake-man without a nose? _Tom?!_ Not likely! Tom was a very good boy. He slept often, hardly every cried and never disobeyed. He was, in fact, the best child under her care. She doted on the lad whenever she found the time. In all honesty, it wasn't until he was 5 that anything... paranormal happened.

It was finally time for the younger children to join in the orphanage's limited schooling. Amongst these children was the young Tom Riddle. He didn't yet have the creepy snake-like face he would later acquire, nor the dashing, good looks of his 16 year old memories. In fact, Little Tom was quite a toad-faced child (one might mistake him for the child of Dolores Umbridge –if she had been born yet, that was), but he made up for that with _the most DAZZLING smile!_ The very same smile he had stretched out on his face on the first day of "real school". Today he would learn how to write!

That was where the problem lay.

Once the lesson had begun, it took a while, but eventually the few other children his age could write in shaky letters. Tom's recent attempt was still no more than a mass of squiggly lines. It frustrated Little Tom to be this bad at something- even as a child he had always been a prideful boy.

When his version of the letter 'B' ended up looking like a hairy pregnant lady, his pencil snapped in despair and rage. Mrs Cole looked on sympathetically and handed another pencil to him.

"It's okay dear, you will get the hang of it soon," she enthused.

Little Tom smiled tightly in thanks. With that, and a little bit of an embarrassed blush heating his cheeks, Tom reached out and accepted the pencil.

He did it with his left hand...

_.. His __**left**__ hand._

His hand closed around the stick from hell- the damned tool for writing that could and _would_ be the end of life as it was known. It was the catalyst for war and blood and anguish; the essence of pure evil.

'Huh,' Tom thought as he curled his fingers into a writing grip about a far more deserving applicant for the nickname of 'death stick'. The pencil in his _left_ hand felt much nicer. With renewed hope, he pressed the tip o the pencil to the paper. The letter was crude, but readable- He'd done it!

With another _DAZZLING _smile, little Tom turned to his caretaker with a proud look on his face. The twinkle of unconstrained glee shone brightly in his wide, blue peepers was crushed? Mrs Cole's expression was one of pure horror that spoke for itself. The child had written with his left hand.

Tom Riddle was left handed?

"_DEVIL CHILD!" _The crazed woman screeched. How dare he take advantage of her hospitality like that! Left handed- this was just sickening! Everyone knew writing with your left hand was a way of contacting the devil!

She thrust him out of the room and away from the other children. How dare he endanger them as well! With an almighty shove the boy/demon was thrown into a cupboard until they knew what to do with him.

Tom was scared. Was he evil? No! Of course he wasn't evil. If anything was evil it must be-

"Well hello boy."

Tom froze in the darkness and slowly, ever so slowly looked down at his left hand. Without him realising, the beast had curled its way into a loose fist. Staring at it in horror, the thumb began to move as if it were talking.

"Yes, you have finally begun to wield my awesome power," a sinister sounding Welsh accent drawled out. Tom went pale. Because everyone knows that Welsh people all plan to take over the world with sheep.

"Who, who are you?" Tom's voice was timid but the hand heard every word he said- despite the lack of ears.

"I am your Left Hand...You may call me...

Louisa," It said, despite the lack of vocal chords. 'Louisa,' Tom mused, 'a beautiful name for a beautiful hand.'

Suddenly it felt as if all of the bad in the world was gone. That wasn't right? Was it?

"There is no good and evil, my naive little Tom; only power, and those too weak to seek it," the hand explained.

From that day on, Tom and his hand went everywhere together. They ate together, wrote together, and discovered the powers that they wielded together. Powers that made the children cry and the adults fear him. His name was unbefitting of such a hand. That would change one day.

* * *

Years later, a 12 year old Harry Potter pulled his face from a glittering pensieve in Professor Dumbledore's unfathomable office. He had just now exited the chamber and had realised the truth behind Riddle's words. He and the evil man _were_ alike.

Dumbledore had unfathomably tried to show Harry that was wrong and brought out the pensieve filled with memories of the boy Riddle used to be.

"I'm right handed sir," Harry told him, nervously.

Dumbledore beamed at him unfathomably with those unfathomable eyes twinkling unfathomably. He was so unfathomable!

"_Exactly,"_ said Dumbledore, beaming once more, "which makes you very _different_ from Tom Riddle. It is in our writing hands, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." Harry sat motionless in his chair, stunned.

"Sir...?" He questioned carefully.

"Yes Harry," Dumbledore amiably replied (still as unfathomable as always)

Harry paused, considering, and then looked back towards the Pensieve. It seemed to the casual observer he was still unsure about his relationship with Voldy-Mont.

"Where did you get those memories?"

Dumbledore froze for a nanosecond before recovering. "Would you like a sweet my boy?" He held out a wrinkled hand filled with sweets towards Harry. Of course- the sweets had travelled across time and space to get here, seemingly out of nowhere on Dumbledore's whim. It was all a part of his teaching contract.

Harry wrinkles his nose a little. "No thank you. But sir those memories were-"

"I'm quite partial to the sherbet lemons myself."

"Really sir, where did you-"

"Although I imagine you'd be more of a liquorish type, my lad."

"You know, I think I'll just leave," Harry eventually said, standing up and slowly backing away towards the door, Dumbledore's outstretched hand following his movements until he had completely exited the room and ran all the way back to Gryffindor tower.

Dumbledore sighed "a close call my dear, our secret was almost discovered." With those last words on the subject, Dumbledore withdrew the hand with the sweets.

His left hand!

The thumb curled into a Hand-y little smile.

Somewhere in Arizona... A baby named Terrance was born.

THE END

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**Author Note: What... Did I just write? Oh, I know: the answer to life. So... Are you Terrance? WHO IS TERRANCE?! I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE ARIZONA IS! I doubt anyone would have enough brain cells left to answer this (if you read this, you probably have read crack fictions before and that's gotta leave you at least a little brain-dead. I am the prime example), but should I write another chapter?  
Actually, on that note, since I doubt anyone will review and correct me, I've got my mum to check it. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT-LIVE WITH IT! HAHAHAHA! Okay this is getting weird.**

_**Muma says " its gooood child, real good"**_

**No really, she just wrote that. The italics? That was her. Wait- she forgot the apostrophe... Why did I ask her to check this, of all people? Are you going to review? Is your name Terrance?! THESE ARE ALL QUESTIONS!**

**-Love Sebby-Nyan**

**PS: No, I am not insulting anyone; anything written in this fiction can be taken as a joke. I myself am Welsh and so if you'd like to claim racism, go hit yourself with a spoon. Louisa is named after a friend of mine who I grew up with and love dearly because she is also left handed. While Louisa may in fact be an evil Welsh girl out to destroy the world with sheep, this does not apply to all Left Handed people. Being Left-handed is not funny; it is a serious condition in which there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. It sounds horrific, right? So don't be mean- be aware. Buy your very own Left Hand Awareness badge by clicking the favourite button to this story.**

**Thank you for caring.**


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